Rosebuds
by sydneyeliza
Summary: Sequel to Mireille in Japan; Kirika has returned to France and the two are settling into a new life with each other.
1. A Special Day for Mireille

Rosebuds  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Noir, as much as I would like to play Mireille. . .  
  
"I'm going to shower, Kirika."  
  
"Un."  
  
She'd never lost that part of her Japanese heritage, thought Mireille, as she entered the bathroom. Just that one word. It wasn't even a word-just a mere sound. She closed the door.  
  
Moments later Kirika heard the muffled sound of rushing water. The young brunette looked nothing like the silent killer she had once been as she delicately gathered her skirts in her hands and stepped up to the window. There, having no need to keep walking, she let them fall to the floor in a cascade of pink.  
  
It was still dark outside and the familiar temple just outside their window formed a looming silhouette in the blue-gray sky of the morning. Kirika placed her elbows on the windowsill and leaned outside, looking down at the empty sidewalk. Normally there would be plenty of French people walking- mostly people who lived in the same apartment as she did. She'd never spoken to any of them.  
  
The doorbell rang, drawing Kirika away from the window. With a hurried "Hai", she rushed to answer it. She hadn't thought doing the preparations so early in the morning would be fun, but a smile worked itself onto her face as she and the deliveryman carried boxes and boxes of flowers inside. Excitement bubbled inside her and she couldn't wait to open them. To see how beautiful Mireille would look, wearing them. Even before the last box was inside, Kirika was already opening them in delight.  
  
"Have a good day, ma'am." He touched his hand to his hat. "Best of wishes for the future."  
  
"Oh, it's not me," Kirika turned, a pink rosebud in her hand, "but I'll tell her. Thank you."  
  
Perhaps it had been a mistake to get dressed up so early, thought Kirika, but it had saved her the trouble of having to change again later. Still, it was a pain having to walk in long skirts that swished about her legs with every movement. Kirika put the blossom back in its box with the others and suddenly caught sight of herself in the mirror. She smiled, feeling like a fairy princess in the dress, although it wasn't her special day.  
  
Mireille had tacked up the mirror on the wall between the beds and her pool table, complaining that she was always in a rush and it took too long to run from the door to the bathroom mirror and back. Kirika hadn't minded. Surprisingly, she'd found herself using it a lot more than she had thought she would. Mirrors, makeup, and hair-these things had always belonged to Mireille's world, but Kirika had changed during those five years she'd spent in Rhode Island.  
  
In the bathroom, Mireille turned off the faucet and stepped slowly out of the bathroom, reaching for the towel. She hated hairdryers for the way they left her hair temporarily feeling stiff and unnatural, but today she had to use them. Besides, by the time she got there, she consoled herself, it would be soft around her shoulders as it usually was.  
  
Mireille found her favorite brush and pulled it through her hair, being extra careful not to rip out any more locks than necessary. Bottles and brushes of makeup sat on the counter in front of her. She would wait to use those until the last minute, so that they lasted as long as possible. She didn't fancy being makeup-less halfway through her special day.  
  
With just a towel wrapped around her, Mireille opened the bathroom door and stepped outside into the cold air. Kirika looked up and guiltily smiled, placing the cover back on the box whose contents she had been fiddling with.  
  
"The flowers are here," she said excitedly.  
  
"I can't wait." Mireille threw open her closet doors and selected some simple clothes. Wisely she had thought everything out the night before and figured that it would be best to put on her dress at the very last moment, along with makeup.  
  
Kirika watched her dress. There was nothing unusual about this routine; almost every morning one or the other would decide to be lazy and stay in bed while the other would get up first to dress. Neither had minded. Everything had fallen neatly into place after Kirika's return to France. If anything, the long separation had made the girls closer than ever.  
  
"I want to see the flowers," came Mireille's muffled voice under the T- shirt. She pulled her head through the correct opening and turned around, observing Kirika's hesitant expression. "I don't care if it's not time yet, Kirika. They're just for you and me, anyway. And besides," she added, a grin on her face, "you've poked through them already."  
  
"Just a few!" contradicted Kirika, and they burst into giggles like the carefree girls they should have been.  
  
Mireille stepped barefoot over to the largest box and opened it. It was a long, rectangular white box that held the beautiful spray of pink roses and ferns, exactly as they had ordered. The stems were tied together with a wide matching pink ribbon.  
  
"It's beautiful," said Kirika in awe.  
  
"This one's yours."  
  
Kirika turned to see that Mireille had already started opening other boxes. She placed the cover back on the box of the gorgeous bouquet and walked to Mireille's side.  
  
"I don't remember ordering that." Kirika extended her hand and touched the soft, silky petals of the pink rosebuds. "And what do we need a wreath for?"  
  
"For you. I thought it would look nice in your dark hair," mused Mireille dreamily, lifting the wreath out of the box. Branches of soft, fresh new ivy and rose leaves were intertwined with the flowers. "Let's see how it looks on you."  
  
"No," said Kirika, "not yet, I don't want to wear it just yet."  
  
Mireille shrugged and put it back inside the box. Once again, Kirika found herself with the responsibility of replacing the cover. "Here are the rose petals for your basket. Shall we put them in now?"  
  
"Un." Kirika promptly fetched the basket-adorned with a matching ribbon-and Mireille plunged both hands into the deep box, bringing out handfuls of large pink and white and red rose petals. Kirika cupped her hands inside the basket, feeling them fall softly over her skin. Mireille laughed.  
  
"I suppose the rest are for decorations," she said, eyeing the five or six boxes that were still unopened. "No-there should be one more."  
  
"It's this one," said Kirika rather guiltily, who had moved back to the original box. "I opened it already."  
  
Mireille came to her side and together they lifted off the cover. Mireille gasped in delight and Kirika simply smiled, having already seen them.  
  
"They're so pretty," she breathed, picking them up. "Kirika, I-Kirika?"  
  
"Hai." Kirika was back within a moment with a package of hairclips. "Let's start putting them in your hair, Mireiyu."  
  
Mireille made a sound that was something between a sigh and a laugh, and Kirika detected a trace of dampness in her eyes. "They remind me of Uncle Claude's flowers. He used to grow so many beautiful ones-and he let me-help him-"  
  
Mireille did not go on. Kirika put her arms around the Corsican blonde, feeling her pain. "Don't think about that, Mireiyu," she ordered in her quiet voice. "Think about all the fun you're going to have today. Starting with these flowers."  
  
Kirika picked up a rosebud and proceeded to clip it to Mireille's temple. Mireille sniffed and smiled. "Thank you, Kirika," she said, holding out her arms. Kirika stepped into her warm embrace and for a long time they stayed like that.  
  
"I'm so glad you came home," Mireille whispered. "I'm so glad you're here to celebrate my special day with me."  
  
"I am too," Kirika said softly, though she was close to bursting with happiness. "I love you, Mireiyu."  
  
"I love you too, Kirika."  
  
It was certainly a very special day-and Kirika was determined to make it the happiest day of Mireille's life. 


	2. Flashback: Homecoming

Rosebuds, Chapter 2  
  
Kirika couldn't stop looking at Mireille. She ignored all the landscapes, all the famous buildings, and all the natural beauty of France. To the young Japanese woman, nothing was as beautiful as the Corsican blonde to her left.  
  
"Really, Kirika." Mireille was laughing, a lovely sound like the tinkling of bells. "What are people going to think about us? You haven't taken your eyes off me since we stepped out of the airport."  
  
"Sorry." Kirika apologized and forced herself to stare straight ahead, but Mireille's laugh drew her gaze back in a second.  
  
"I don't mind, I think it's funny."  
  
There was a pause before Kirika initiated, "You hadn't been home for a long time when I stopped by. Where were you?"  
  
"In Japan."  
  
"Eh? Japan?"  
  
The traffic light flashed from red to green and Mireille increased her pressure on the accelerator. "Hai, Nihon," she said carefully, blushing a little at her accented words. Kirika's eyes lit up with delight.  
  
"You learned how to speak Japanese!" she exclaimed.  
  
"Just a little," admitted Mireille. That did nothing to stem Kirika's excitement.  
  
"What else can you say?"  
  
"Hmm. Kon'nichiwa. Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Mireiyu desu."  
  
Both girls laughed. "What did you go to Japan for?" asked Kirika. "It wasn't. . . another contract was it?"  
  
"No. I don't even have my gun anymore. Actually, I went looking for you. . . because I thought you might have gone back to Japan." Mireille tapped a finger on the steering wheel and laughed. "But you were here, in France, waiting for me. The irony."  
  
"You thought I was in Japan?" The excitement was gone from Kirika's eyes and had been replaced by pure curiosity. "Why?"  
  
Mireille didn't answer directly, and Kirika didn't press her. A few streets later, she said quietly, "I didn't know where else you would go. I never imagined you would go to America."  
  
The sky was navy now, masking Kirika's expression in the darkness. Mireille turned to look at her old partner but saw only her silhouette.  
  
"I never even thought of going to Japan," Kirika said at last. "Especially since I have almost no memories of it, although I must have spent most of my life there. Returning to Japan wouldn't have been very much different from going to a new country, except that I would be reminded constantly of you and when I asked you to come with me on our pilgrimage to the past. And after we argued. . ."  
  
Kirika's voice trailed off. Mireille put one arm around Kirika's shoulders. "It's past time I apologized for that," she said earnestly. "I've thought about that night so many times, even dreamed of it. I shouldn't have ignored you, I should have started paying more attention to you a long time ago, and-"  
  
"Mireiyu." Kirika stopped the flow of apologies with just one word, heavily accented on the last syllable. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're together again, and that's all that matters." She smiled then, although Mireille couldn't see it. "Just like old times."  
  
"Thank you, Kirika."  
  
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Mireille was happier than she had been in years. Kirika was back-and best of all, she'd forgiven the absence and cruel words Mireille had dealt her. If she hadn't been driving, she would have liked to dance down the street.  
  
The Corsican blonde pulled into a parking space and stepped out, giving her hair an elegant shake. Kirika slammed the door behind her and followed her up.  
  
Mireille had entered the apartment building when she suddenly paused. Behind her, Kirika almost slammed into her back and was about to apologize when Mireille slowly turned, grinning as it dawned on her slowly.  
  
"You were the one that opened my mailbox, ne?"  
  
It was Kirika's turn to blush. "How did you know?"  
  
Mireille laughed victoriously. "It was crooked when I came home!"  
  
Kirika grinned guiltily. The smiles remained on their faces all the way up the stairs, where Mireille paused in front of her door and fumbled in her bag for her key.  
  
"I have a key," Kirika reminded, deftly unlocking the door and giving it a push. Without a creak, the door swung open to reveal Mireille's Parisian apartment, the pool table, and the painting laid upon it. Kirika glanced at Mireille anxiously.  
  
"Thank you for the painting," Mireille said, pulling Kirika into a hug. "This is the most wonderful gift I have ever received. Apart from you, that is."  
  
Kirika would have been perfectly content to just lay her head on Mireille's shoulder, but much too quickly Mireille let go and stepped into the apartment, unzipping her long black boots. Kirika shut the door and kicked off her sandals.  
  
"You must be hungry." Playing the hostess now, Mireille stepped into the kitchen and quickly began rummaging through her refrigerator. "I have pasta, and bread, and chicken, and-"  
  
"It's okay, Mireiyu." Kirika cut her off for the second time, picking up the chicken that she had tossed to the ground. "Anything's fine. I-" her gaze traveled around the room. "I'm just so happy to be home again with you."  
  
Still kneeling on the floor, surrounded by chicken and bread and packages of noodles, Mireille smiled and shut the refrigerator door. "All right then. Kirika-Kirika, what are you doing?"  
  
The Japanese girl had her back to the Corsican blonde now, who quickly hurried over. "This is your homecoming, Kirika, you're supposed to be letting me do the preparing."  
  
"It's your homecoming too, from Japan," Kirika pointed out, not even looking up. Deftly she sliced the chicken so quickly and neatly that even Mireille had to admire her style. "Besides, I've learned to cook properly."  
  
"I learned to make tea," Mireille retorted, and added, "somewhat."  
  
Kirika laughed and placed the pan in the oven.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"Kirika?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What did you do all those years in America?"  
  
Mireille lay flat on her back, her arms up above her shoulders and her hands under her head, listening to Kirika talk. It was a miracle just to hear her voice.  
  
"I lived in Rhode Island and taught Japanese in a local high school. I learned Spanish, and was on vacation in Spain when I decided to stop by and see you here. I intended to paint but never. . . got around. . . to it. . . " The last words were punctuated with an exhausted yawn.  
  
Mireille was silent, thinking this over.  
  
"Mireiyu?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"What did you. . . do when you were. . . in Japan?"  
  
Mireille turned over to look at Kirika and smiled as if she were a little child. Her child. The girl's eyes were closed and only her chest moved up and down with each breath, the dark locks falling recklessly over her forehead.  
  
"That's a story for another night. Go to sleep, Kirika," she whispered softly.  
  
But Kirika was already asleep. 


	3. Flashback: Shopping in Paris

Rosebuds, Chapter 3  
  
"What did you. . .do when you were. . . in Japan?"  
  
Her own voice reverberated around inside her head and Kirika moaned, trying not to wake up. It was such a pleasant dream-she was back in France, and Mireille was there with her. She heard Mireille's voice, as if it were far away-"That's a story for another night. Go to sleep, Kirika."  
  
Kirika thought she had never heard a sweeter voice.  
  
"Wake up!" The curtains were thrown back abruptly and light flooded the room. Annoyed, Kirika was forced to wake up and sit up. "I made breakfast."  
  
Kirika opened her eyes fully and gasped. It wasn't a dream-she was really here, in France. And there was Mireille standing by her bed, leaning over her, with a plate piled high with French toast.  
  
"Mireiyu!" exclaimed Kirika.  
  
Mireille laughed. "You must have been really tired; it's almost ten o'clock already. Good thing we don't have a contract on our hands."  
  
They ate breakfast at the table, facing the open window. Mireille ate normally, but Kirika was hardly eating, staring constantly at the Corsican blonde. It had seemed so dreamlike; she could hardly believe that she was actually here with Mireille again. She had truly missed her partner in those years, but hadn't allowed herself to admit it.  
  
Mireille crossed her legs and sat back, a piece of French toast neatly speared on her fork. "What would you like to do today?"  
  
Kirika blinked. "I don't know. . . with no papers to grade and no students to see, I feel like I have so much free time on my hands."  
  
Mireille laughed and suddenly sat upright. "I know. Let's go shopping and stop by a restaurant for lunch. How does that sound?"  
  
Kirika replied with only an "un", but it was accompanied by a smile.  
  
Pleased, Mireille continued. "You'll need clothes and all sorts of living necessities, since all your things are still in America. There's a wonderful store just a few streets down and several restaurants, as well as a grocery store so we can buy some more tea."  
  
"That sounds nice." Kirika finished her tea and stood up. "Shall we go?"  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika and Mireille emerged from the store, carrying packages of all sizes. In Kirika's slender arms rested what seemed like enough clothes to last her a lifetime-and there were still more in Mireille's hands. She could hardly see in front of her as she crossed the street.  
  
They chose a quiet, cozy little restaurant down the street in a not-so-busy part of Paris and sat at a circular table outside. Kirika expected Mireille to order first, but instead Mireille gestured for her to begin. Surprised, Kirika chose a salad and some tea. Mireille selected something along the same lines.  
  
The bright umbrella overhead was painted in stripes of red and blue and white, casting shadows of different shades on the table. Their bags rested by their sides. Mireille sat with her elbows propping up her arms, her chin resting on her knuckles. Kirika sat straight up, her hands folded in her lap.  
  
Mireille broke the silence that had been punctuated only by the sounds of traffic. "So, what made you decide to go to Spain?"  
  
Kirika turned, surprised, then remembered that she had been talking about Spain in a half-asleep mode the night before. "It was the first vacation that I'd gone on since I started working. The Spanish teacher at school was really nice and we were good friends; she had taught me a lot of Spanish in our free time and I'd always been inspired by her stories of Spain."  
  
"And being in school again?" Mireille asked gently. "How did that feel?"  
  
"Very different from Japan," Kirika said, then sipped her tea. "There, I was a student. . . and I didn't know anyone, not even myself. When I became a teacher I was in control and-it seemed gave me a sense of power. I could teach how I pleased and become friends with whomever I wanted. There were no more worries about not fitting in and who I was and why I was there."  
  
Mireille sipped her tea. Kirika watched her expressionlessly.  
  
"How was it in Japan?"  
  
Mireille made a strange sound that vaguely resembled choking and put her cup down. "I met a cat. She reminded me of you."  
  
She cupped her teacup in both hands, staring down at the leaves as she spoke. "I'm sure my experiences in Japan were nothing like yours in America. Everything was filled with memories of you-of how I first found you at the school, how we spoke in your apartment, and how you agreed to leave Japan with me. And the cat. . ." Mireille's voice trailed off, thinking of Crystal. Those last moments of seeing her at the airport had been pure torture. "I don't know. There was just something about her that reminded me of you every time I saw her. Maybe it reminded me of the time you brought Nazarov's cat home."  
  
"Did you go back to my apartment?" Kirika asked quietly, her face still expressionless, though Mireille caught just a hint of longing in those direct brown eyes.  
  
"Yes," Mireille said, and slowly smiled. "It was very dusty. I had to clean everything out before it was suitable for living."  
  
Kirika laughed at this, though her voice seemed just a bit hollow. She raised her teacup to her lips and suddenly mumbled something.  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
Kirika let the cup come back to the table with a soft clunk. "I said, I wouldn't mind seeing Tokyo again."  
  
Mireille leaned over and patted Kirika's arm, seeing the wistfulness in her eyes. "Someday, we'll make a trip there together," she promised. Kirika turned to face her, smiling.  
  
The waitress brought their orders and refilled their teacups. Kirika pulled the plastic cover off her salad and tore open the package of dressing. Without even looking up, she asked, "What happened to the cat?"  
  
Mireille's fork sank into a piece of cucumber and stayed there. Slowly Kirika's gaze traveled up to meet Mireille's eyes. She didn't press the matter.  
  
"We met the first night I arrived in Japan. I let her stay in your apartment and named her Crystal. Now I understand how you felt about Prince Myshkin," said Mireille, and Kirika smiled sadly. "I couldn't bring her out of Japan though, and just before takeoff I saw a cat outside, sitting not fifty feet from our plane. I'm sure it was her."  
  
"You cared for a her a lot," Kirika said quietly.  
  
Kirika can still read my mind like she did years ago, thought Mireille.  
  
"You know, Kirika, after all these years that you've lived in Paris, you've never gone to see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre. We'll arrange a special day to do that."  
  
"Thank you, Mireiyu."  
  
Author's note: grrrr. . .sequels are never near as good as the first story, are they? I've worked out the beginning and the end of this story but there's a still big hole in the middle.  
  
Also, I think I've made it a bit confusing. . .the first chapter is set in the present and the rest of the chapters are flashbacks. Sorry about any confusion that caused : ) 


	4. Flashback: The blue envelope

Rosebuds, Chapter 4  
  
Spritedust: Fortunately, Mireille and Kirika aren't getting married (I actually never thought of that, lol) I tried to make it a girlish friendship sort of thing (such as the way "LYLAS" is commonly used, etc)- not in a lesbian sort of love, and there probably will be a bit of romance in this story (not between Kirika and Mireille), but I'll try to keep it down to a minimum. Sorry-I didn't realize the first chapter was sort of implying this. Thanks for reviewing!  
  
"Mireiyu, you've got mail."  
  
With one foot on the staircase already, Mireille turned to look at her mailbox. There was a large pale blue envelope that had been roughly shoved inside. The sheer size of it had prevented the sender from being able to shut the mailbox properly.  
  
Mireille came back to Kirika's side and drew out the envelope. To her surprise, everything on it was written in Japanese. She sighed, annoyed with her weak Japanese skills.  
  
"I never did learn to read Japanese properly. You'll have to translate for me."  
  
Kirika took the packet from Mireille's hands and studied it. "It's addressed to both of us," she said quietly, her eyes still scanning the characters. "Whoever it is, they already know I'm here."  
  
" 'Whoever it is'? Who's the sender? And does it actually have both of our names on it?" Mireille asked, impatiently waiting for details. She was used to dealing with such things herself and wanted to know exactly what the envelope said. During her career she had soon learned that a simple difference in wording could be a big difference in the long run.  
  
"Both of us. 'Mireille Bouquet and Yuumura Kirika.' " Kirika looked up to meet Mireille's edgy blue eyes. "The sender's name is blurred." She handed the envelope back to Mireille. The Corsican blonde took it into her hands and saw that the sender had never completed the task of writing his or her name. It seemed as though after only a few characters, he or she had swept his or her hand across it, destroying the words and leaving only a black blemish on the pale blue paper.  
  
"I see."  
  
Wary now, Mireille tucked the envelope into one of her bags and ascended the stairs without another word. Quite used to this demeanor, Kirika followed.  
  
Mireille's hand hardly quivered as she stabbed the key into its keyhole and turned the doorknob. Sunshine from the opposing windows poured into the dark hallway. She waited for Kirika to enter, then closed the door.  
  
"Why don't you go hang up your new clothes?" asked Mireille, trying to keep a cheery tone. This situation was making her jumpy and reminding her of days she didn't want to remember. Days of Noir and Soldats, of Intoccable and Shaoli. She wanted a moment alone, to read over what was inside, before she could decide what to do.  
  
I can always hope it's just a magazine or an advertisement, thought Mireille, then bleakly remembered that Kirika's name had been on it as well.  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea," Kirika's voice cut into her thoughts. "You might need me to translate."  
  
Mireille was silent for a moment. "So I might," she admitted, and set her bags on the floor. Kirika did the same. Mireille drew the envelope out of the bag and they walked over to the pool table to read it.  
  
The three or four Japanese characters that had once been the sender's identity had been reduced to an undistinguishable stain of black. Nevertheless, the Corsican blonde pushed the envelope towards her old partner. "Can you read what it says?"  
  
"No," Kirika replied, after a moment of deep studying.  
  
Mireille pulled the envelope back towards her and slit it open. Deciding that she might as well get this over with, she turned the envelope upside down and let everything inside spill onto the soft felt of the pool table.  
  
Her first impression was that whoever the sender might be, they were certainly not a well-organized person. Photographs and handwritten letters and typed correspondences floated to every corner of the pool table. Confused, Mireille put the now-empty envelope down and picked up a photograph.  
  
It was a picture of a playground, with little children running and playing about. Mireille gave a weak sound of surprise, then flipped it over. The backside was blank. She turned it back to the front again, and upon closer inspection saw that there was a man in the background. She held the picture closer to her face.  
  
He was sitting on a bench, facing sideways, so that she could only see his profile. The figure was only about two centimeters tall in the photograph, something that irked Mireille even more. He was blonde and wore dark clothes. She could tell nothing else. Mireille put the photograph down.  
  
"Do you know where this picture was taken?"  
  
Kirika looked at it. "No," she said honestly, her wide brown eyes full of truth.  
  
Mireille picked up a letter next and to her despair, discovered it was in Japanese.  
  
"We know where this one is." Kirika slid the picture towards her.  
  
Mireille gasped, her eyes widening. The photograph was a simple serene image of a school, all its students wearing identical uniforms-uniforms Mireille recognized. It was Kirika's old school in Japan. In the foreground sat a golden-furred kitten, facing the photographer with obvious curiosity. She recognized that cat.  
  
"Why would anyone send us random pictures of Japan?" she said, trying to keep the surprise, worry, and exasperation out of her mind. The letter sat beside her left hand and Kirika picked it up.  
  
"It's a client." She lowered the paper and reached for the first photograph, the picture of the playground. "The target is this man."  
  
Mireille was speechless, staring at the tiny blonde man at whom Kirika was pointing.  
  
"A client?! They want us to. . . " Her voice trailed off, trying to find some error in the message. "Who's the client? And why? What's the target's name? Where is he?" Mireille fired off questions in a rapid sequence like gunshots. Kirika was quiet, rereading the letter.  
  
"Not Soldats?" Mireille whispered, almost afraid to say the word.  
  
"No," Kirika said steadily, and Mireille wanted to know how she could be so sure. "This letter isn't written the way Soldats would have written it. The style is different."  
  
"So someone randomly decided to send us a letter asking us to kill this man?" asked Mireille. She vowed to work harder on her Japanese, starting tonight.  
  
"Un." Kirika flipped the letter over, and seeing that it was blank, turned back to the front side. "The target is in Tokyo, Japan."  
  
"And to think I just came back from there." Mireille laughed dryly. Kirika said nothing, her glance resting on Mireille's face. The obvious answer was formed in Mireille's mind. What sort of ridiculous contract was this? The client had not revealed his name, or the name of the target. They had not been in business for over five years. Neither of them carried a gun anymore. Mireille wanted to laugh and throw the envelope along with its contents in the trash and stood up to do so, but as she did, she detected a trace of longing in Kirika's eyes. She couldn't have interpreted that correctly.  
  
"You. . .want to do this?" she asked, not believing it. Even as the thoughts whirled through her head, she heard a younger Kirika's voice: "I miss. . . being Noir, Mireiyu."  
  
Kirika didn't look at her directly as she said, "Not particularly, but I would like to see Japan again."  
  
Mireille was silent as she hung up all of Kirika's new clothes. Kirika said nothing, not even when she closed the closet door, sighed, and went to lie down on her bed. The Japanese girl looked towards her partner for a while, then turned back and resumed studying the papers and photographs. 


	5. Flashback: Mireille's decision

Rosebuds, Chapter 5  
  
Mireille had a splitting headache. This day was not going how she had intended for it to go.  
  
"Whoever it is, they already know I'm here."  
  
Kirika's voice echoed in her head, bringing up a new worry. Evidently they were being watched. Mireille laid her hand palm up over her forehead and closed her eyes. She hated the feeling of unknowing, unsure of whether or not they were being toyed with. She had spent five years trying to erase the painful memories of the past-and the that blue envelope had destroyed the delicate shield she had constructed between the Mireille Bouquet of today and the Mireille Bouquet of Noir, sending her back to the past.  
  
And Kirika wanted to take the contract. That thought made her feel even more miserable.  
  
Furthermore, she didn't even understand enough of the language to buy a bottle of water, much less conduct an assassination perfectly. Mireille couldn't possibly imagine needing Kirika to translate every sentence. They could never stick together at all times during a killing.  
  
They didn't even send us a name, thought Mireille, her thoughts becoming jumbled and angry now. What if we assassinate the wrong one? What if we never get paid for it? What if-  
  
"Mireiyu, are you feeling all right?" Kirika asked, coming up the steps with a steaming cup of tea.  
  
"Yes," said Mireille in a distant voice. "I'm all right."  
  
Kirika took a seat on her bed and watched as Mireille slowly sipped her tea. "I've finished reading everything," she started tentatively, "and it appears that this is their second correspondence to us. The first one was via email, this morning."  
  
"What!" exclaimed Mireille, sitting straight up. Tea sloshed over her lap and she grimaced at the heat searing over her legs.  
  
"This envelope was only a backup copy, in case we didn't get the first notice. That's why it was so vague. There should be more details in the email," Kirika said calmly.  
  
Mireille grabbed a napkin and blotted helplessly at her stained skirt, her mind racing furiously. She hadn't used her laptop in over a year and since coming home from Altena's shrine, had never touched her email. She had never corresponded with anyone but her clients and once with Kirika via email, and now that that life was over, there was no need for it. Mireille sighed and stood up, making her way to the closet in which she kept the computer.  
  
The letter spoke truth. In addition to plenty of spam, there was one email from an address she had never seen before, with several large attachments. As it was written in plain English, Mireille read it over quickly with relief.  
  
"A backup copy will be sent to you in Japanese this afternoon," the email ended, "in order to prevent others from reading it. It is our understanding that Miss Yuumura will be able to translate."  
  
"We still don't know who they are," muttered Mireille, but she had to agree as well that it clearly wasn't Soldats. She clicked on the attachments.  
  
Both of the photographs from the envelope were there, along with a few others. One was an image of the inside of a school, depicting students diligently taking notes while a teacher lectured at the blackboard, and another was of Kirika's apartment building. The last image was of a blond man walking down the school's hallways, waving to various students. Only the back of his head was visible.  
  
"Well, that's very helpful," Mireille said sarcastically, closing her eyes in annoyance. Her headache was getting worse. "They won't show us his face. How are we supposed to know who he is?"  
  
"There are tiny words under the pictures," Kirika said quietly, her eyes not leaving the screen. Mireille expanded the image and they leaned in to study the words.  
  
"Andre Charbonneau. Current Principal of Tsubaki High School in Tokyo, Japan." Mireille frowned. "A Frenchman is the principal of a Japanese high school? Who was the principal when you were there?"  
  
"I don't remember," said Kirika, "but it wasn't him."  
  
The next picture-the playground picture-came up with a click of the mouse. Kirika read out the words. "Pictured here in a park, Andre Charbonneau came to Japan over ten years ago from France, already fluent in Japanese. Has been deliberately misusing school funds and hiring corrupt teachers-"  
  
Mireille closed the window. "Who's the client, a group of angry parents?" she said angrily. "This is ridiculous."  
  
Nevertheless, Kirika read on after Mireille left, building up a mental image of the target. Andre Charbonneau, the French president of her old high school. Two of the other images were explained as pictures simply included to give them an idea of where the assassination would take place. Under the image of Kirika's old apartment, however, there was an explanatory sentence stating that this would be the ideal place for them to stay during their temporary visit to Japan, since "Miss Yuumura already has an apartment there that has not been occupied for years."  
  
Kirika had mixed feelings about this now. Sure, she would love to see Japan, and all the places she had lived in confusedly six years ago, but to go there on a contract? She'd spent many long hours sitting in class in that same school, drifting off and wondering who she was instead of paying attention. There was no way she could imagine running through the school with a gun, killing whoever stood in her way. And with a shock she realized that most people who stood in her way would be students-innocent teenagers like she had once hoped to be.  
  
Mireille came out of the kitchen to see Kirika still sitting there. More than anything she wanted to tell the client that she wasn't in business anymore and to delete the simple email. A few clicks of the mouse, a few keystrokes, and she could forget it ever happened. Yet. . .  
  
"I would like to see Japan again."  
  
"Someday, we'll make a trip there together."  
  
Mireille walked over to Kirika's side and noticed that the computer was shut off. She sat on the edge of the pool table, facing Kirika, and calmly folded the screen forwards so that it was facedown over the keyboard. She tried to smile.  
  
"Shall we go?"  
  
Kirika looked at her in shock, disbelief-and, Mireille believed-a faint trace of a smile. "To Japan? You want to take the contract?"  
  
Mireille looked straight ahead then, her face set, all traces of happiness gone. "I don't know about the contract. We'll decide that when we get there," she said firmly. "We'll look at it as a trip to Japan for enjoyment. If we want to take the contract, we'll tell them later."  
  
Kirika smiled happily.  
  
Mireille smiled grimly. "Start packing your bags." 


	6. Flashback: Touchdown in Japan

Rosebuds, Chapter 6  
  
Kirika watched the trees of her homeland grow larger and more textured as the plane dipped lower in the atmosphere. She had been awake most of the journey, filled with excitement. It would be her first trip back to Japan in six years.  
  
Mireille, on the other hand, had dozed off the moment the plane's wheels left the Paris runway. She was still asleep now, her seat back pushed as far back as it would possibly go, a blanket draped over her slim body. Kirika briefly considered waking her to tell her that they were almost there, then decided against it.  
  
They had brought no weapons with them, but Mireille had packed her computer safely in one of her two carry-ons. They would be staying in Japan for a week, and Mireille had reserved a hotel room for them.  
  
"Obviously we can't stay in your apartment," she had pointed out.  
  
Kirika had replied with only an "un", knowing that the Corsican blonde was not really expecting a response. Mireille's eyes hadn't even strayed from the screen as she clicked and typed.  
  
A flight attendant stopped by and woke Mireille. "Excuse me, but I must ask you put your seat back to its upright position-we'll be landing soon," she said smartly in crisp French. Mireille groaned and sat up, fumbling for the button. By the time her seat was upright again the flight attendant was far down the aisle, reminding others to do the same.  
  
The plane hit ground. As Kirika watched, the unique sign spelling out "NARITA" in a row of bushes cut into alphabetical shapes slowly came into view. Beside her, Mireille stretched and reached for her bags.  
  
They left the airport with hardly a word to each other, but Kirika had to arrange for a taxi to take them to their hotel. There, she went through the process of checking in and finding their hotel room. Mireille seemed content to follow, hardly saying a word at all. Kirika glanced at her in the elevator and noted that her face was pale, but perhaps that was just due to all the stress and traveling they had just gone through. When the door opened Mireille waited for Kirika to step out first, then silently followed her to their room.  
  
Kirika threw open the door to reveal a nice hotel room, with two beds, a writing desk, a TV and a couch positioned under the window. Her eye traveled over everything, checking for anything that might arouse suspicion. She sensed motion behind her and whirled around, but saw that it was only Mireille, who was now leaning against the doorframe, her eyes closed.  
  
"Mireiyu?"  
  
Mireille replied with only a faint sound. Concerned, Kirika watched her for a few seconds, hoping for more of a reaction, but when none came, she hauled her bags over to the far bed and came back to fetch Mireille's. The Corsican blonde walked slowly over to the unoccupied bed and lay down on it, not bothering to draw back the blanket or even take off her shoes. Kirika closed the door as silently as possible and returned to her bed.  
  
Two hours later she made a trip out to buy dinner and returned from a nearby restaurant with two bowls of still-warm Japanese noodles, but even the sharp noise of the closing door didn't wake Mireille. Kirika had paused by the door, both hands consumed with carrying the noodles, and decided not to wake her. She ate her own share and put her partner's in the tiny but adequate refrigerator.  
  
It was growing dark outside, but for Mireille's sake, Kirika didn't turn on a light. Instead she knelt on the couch, looking out. Japan had changed drastically since she had last been here. A group of girls dressed in high heels and tank tops walked down the street, flaunting packages and giggling amongst themselves. Kirika could hear their voices in her mind despite the fact that she was five stories up and the window was tightly shut. Surprised, she realized that the clothes she was wearing weren't too different from the girls', but she would never be like them. Especially not now.  
  
Watashitachi wa. . . Noir, thought Kirika in the darkness, and a shiver ran down her spine.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille didn't sleep well that night. Images of the dead flashed through her mind-some she knew, some she didn't recognize, some with names, others nameless, faceless individuals that had died by her hand. She saw Intoccabile, Altena, the mafia, Nazarov, Cressoit, the belladonna lily woman, and countless men of Soldats. But most clearly she saw Chloe.  
  
In life, she had never seen Chloe happy like Kirika had; she had only witnessed the mysterious Chloe and the enraged Chloe. Yet that night she saw Chloe and Kirika as children, running about the vineyards, plucking grapes. It was Kirika who was the quiet and reserved child, Chloe who was the excited one who would burst into excited laughter upon discovering a butterfly or make faces while eating a sour grape.  
  
Chloe's entire life was spent preparing to become Noir, her dreaming self realized, yet her fate was death.  
  
Rays of lemon light danced over Mireille's face and slowly she opened her eyes. Gradually the room came into focus, and she noticed Kirika making tea over the tiny stove.  
  
With one hand resting palm up on her forehead, Mireille called out, "Kirika, I don't think I'm going anywhere today. You might as well go out and enjoy yourself."  
  
Kirika turned sharply, having not known that Mireille was awake. She placed one of the teacups on a matching patterned plate and brought it to Mireille's side. By now the Corsican blonde had closed her eyes again.  
  
"Is there anything I can get you?" Kirika asked tentatively.  
  
"No. Just go out and have fun. We've only got two weeks in Japan, so don't waste it."  
  
Kirika obeyed, although she wasn't sure where she'd go. Their apartment was several miles away from her school, close enough that they could observe it but still distant enough to enjoy Japan without thinking about the contract. She crossed the street over to a nearby park.  
  
Let there always be light and water for the tree, thought Kirika, then pushed that thought out of her mind. She remembered the teenagers she had seen yesterday. Perhaps she ought to go shopping and hang out in a coffee shop like them.  
  
There weren't many people in the park, which was why Kirika happened to notice two men dressed in suits coming along down the path towards her. One was Japanese and much shorter than the other; he was smiling while his grim- faced companion was staring at the ground. He was blonde and tall, and something about him kept Kirika watching. She had seen him before, and she thought she knew why.  
  
As they passed her not paying any attention to the young Japanese girl sitting on a bench, the blonde man looked up and said in accent-less Japanese, "Don't do this anymore."  
  
The Japanese man laughed and said, "What does it matter, Andre? They'll never know."  
  
The name sent a shiver down Kirika's spine and she willed herself to look away from them. She couldn't have them suspect who she was. However-and she was confused now-it seemed as if their target wasn't the one behind all the fund embezzling. She hadn't seen the man's face, but it clearly appeared that he disapproved of whatever was going on.  
  
Kirika pretended to be very interested in a bird flying overhead until the men were out of sight, then sprinted home.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
She slept through the opening of the door, but the shutting of the door woke her. Kirika was holding bags of groceries in both hands and had used her left foot to kick the door shut. Still feeling languid and miserable, Mireille sat up rather unwillingly.  
  
"How was your day?" she asked.  
  
"Good." Kirika purposely avoided Mireille's gaze, keeping her back to her partner as she placed the groceries in the refrigerator. Mireille watched her silently, not saying a word. When the last piece of fruit was in the refrigerator, Kirika reached into the bag and pulled out a thermometer.  
  
Mireille hated to admit to herself that she was sick, but the thermometer's clear red numbers stated it for her. Kirika drew a blanket over her shivering body and dampened a cloth in cold water for her hot forehead.  
  
"Do you remember that time I was shot and you went out to get supplies for me?" Kirika said, talking to fill the uncomfortable silence-and to keep her mind off of the looming contract.  
  
"Mm." Mireille closed her eyes, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Kirika didn't press the matter.  
  
Andre Charbonneau. The name echoed through her head. Kirika closed her eyes. 


	7. Flashback: A day at the amusement park

Rosebuds, Chapter 7  
  
Already several days had passed since they had first arrived in Japan. Mireille had spent most of it in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Kirika hadn't yet admitted it to her partner, but she was beginning to consider taking on the contract.  
  
She still hadn't told Mireille about actually seeing their target-but then again, she and Mireille had hardly exchanged any words since the plane landed. Yet the memory had clamped onto her mind like a barnacle on a whale. Andre Charbonneau. The innocent target. Those three words kept running through her mind as she made dinner. Would she kill him, now that she knew he was innocent? Or would she choose instead to track down the one truly guilty of the crimes? Kirika sliced carrots rapidly, her mouth set in a line. And to do this inside her old school, in front of thousands of innocent children. . .  
  
It wouldn't be possible, she reminded herself. She and Mireille had come for enjoyment, not an assassination. They had no weapons. They had done no detailed studies of Tsubaki High School. Yet Kirika knew they were being watched.  
  
She kept all these thoughts to herself, knowing that there was no need to bother the still-feverish Mireille now. Kirika reached for a cucumber.  
  
Her fever was going down and she kept trying to get out of bed, but Kirika had insisted that she stay until she was well. Despite running her own household for five years, it still felt strange to be ordering Mireille about. Mireille, on the other hand, was deeply annoyed with herself for becoming a burden to Kirika. She hated knowing that she was incapable of taking care of herself right now, but it couldn't be helped. Kirika knew that Mireille would be out of bed the moment she was perfectly healed.  
  
That day came on their fifth day in Japan. It was Kirika who woke late and Mireille who was in the bathroom first, humming as she did her hair. She came out looking vibrant and full of life, nothing like the limp, wilted woman who had arrived here nearly a week ago.  
  
They decided to spend the entire day at an amusement park. Mireille hadn't been to one since her early teens, during which her Uncle Claude had accompanied her, and Kirika had never been to one-at least not one that she could remember. Kirika arranged for a rental car at the front desk and Mireille drove them fifteen miles down the road. She rolled the windows down, feeling the wind on her face and blowing her hair back, and felt happy again. No more worries of Noir. Kirika, too, tried to forget all such thoughts, but neither admitted it to the other.  
  
Kirika discovered quickly that she didn't care for roller coasters, but Mireille loved them and laughed on every ride. Kirika covered her eyes and screamed nonstop, and after a few rides Mireille gave in to Kirika's pleading for her to stop. They headed to the pool, and Mireille rented a raft.  
  
"When I was little," Mireille told Kirika, as they stepped into the cool water, "Uncle Claude took me to the pool a few times to teach me how to swim. After awhile I became fairly proficient at it and decided to go into the deep water. Of course, before I knew it, the water was over my head and I began to panic."  
  
"Un," Kirika said, her eyes focused on the perforated panels at the end of the pool. They were creating huge waves-but Kirika wasn't sure how that was possible. Part of her wanted to run to the deep water and find out how it was working, but the other part wanted nothing more than to hear the rest of Mireille's story. Mireille didn't notice and continued.  
  
"Soon I was underwater and I opened my eyes, only to see a large dark shape coming towards me-and I tried to scream, but it turned out to be my Uncle Claude. He swam under me and placing his hands on my feet, pushed me up out of the water." Mireille smiled at the memory. "Needless to say, I never went that deep again until I'd had many more swimming lessons."  
  
Kirika turned towards Mireille and smiled, obviously liking the story.  
  
"So," Mireille placed the raft in the water, "get in. I'll push you along."  
  
Kirika was shocked, but obligingly stepped into the center of the donut- shaped raft, unsure of how this was supposed to work. Mireille laughed and told her to step back out, then showed her how to sit in the middle, her legs and arms dangling over the side. Once Kirika was comfortably settled, Mireille walked deeper into the water and eventually began to swim, pushing Kirika along in front of her.  
  
The waves grew bigger and bigger and Kirika was scared like a little girl, but soon overcame her fear. "This is fun!" she called to Mireille, who was bobbing along in the waves beside her, hanging onto the side of the raft for flotation.  
  
Mireille laughed.  
  
Kirika was floating closer and closer to the panels now and her curiosity grew. She shifted her position slightly but only succeeded in slightly rotating the raft. Each wave pushed her farther away and she flailed desperately in the bright yellow raft, trying to figure out how one was supposed to maneuver.  
  
"Mireiyu!" she called, intending to ask if she could have some help. However, Mireille didn't seem to be there. Then Kirika's stomach lurched as she felt the side of her raft rising under her left hand and her right hand dipping into the water. There wasn't time to scream before she was flipped over.  
  
Kirika had never had swimming lessons and wasn't an avid swimmer, but came to the surface anyway. Kicking her feet madly to stay afloat, Kirika rubbed at her eyes, then heard someone laughing behind her. She whirled around to see Mireille, her long blond locks plastered to her face and neck.  
  
Mireille's expression turned to concern as she asked, "Can you swim?"  
  
"Yes," Kirika ground out through a mouthful of water. Mireille offered her arm and together, they set off after the raft. For the rest of the afternoon, Kirika stayed either on the raft or hung to the edge. Waves were fun, but she didn't want to get washed under again.  
  
The sun was already plummeting slowly in the sky before the pool closed. Mireille pushed Kirika (in the raft) back to shore, aided by the force of the waves, and Kirika climbed out, strangely not wanting to leave. She hung behind for just a few moments, wanting to feel the water run over her feet just one more time. When that desire was satisfied she picked up the raft and ran to Mireille.  
  
The Corsican blonde stood facing the pool chair where they had left their bags-and Kirika saw that it was empty. Even their shoes, which had been left to the side of the chairs, were gone.  
  
Mireille whirled around, her eyes narrowing. She knew exactly what Kirika did: this hadn't been done by someone who had accidentally grabbed the wrong bag. Someone had bothered to pick up their shoes along with the towels and clothes had been strewn all over the pair of chairs and take them away. She turned and walked away. Kirika didn't follow, just watched her from their empty chairs.  
  
Mireille was halfway down the row of chairs before Kirika saw her head sink. She turned back to look at Kirika, and Kirika instinctively understood. To do anything she would need a translator. She hurried after her partner.  
  
They returned the raft and Kirika asked hurriedly about their bags. To their immense surprise, the young woman behind the counter replied that someone had turned in two lost bags-and brought out their bags. Mireille asked about their shoes in halting, heavily accented Japanese and felt stupid when Kirika had to translate for her. The young woman shook her head and apologized. There was nothing she could do since nothing had been turned in, and as the park was closing, they would have to leave.  
  
In the car Mireille found, to her shock, that all her clothes and shoes had been neatly folded and packed strategically so that everything fit perfectly. She pulled out her shoes and a tiny slip of paper fell out.  
  
It was only half the length of Mireille's finger and about an inch wide, the few characters handwritten in Japanese on a rectangle of simple white paper. She heard movement stop behind her and called out, "Are all your things there too?"  
  
"Hai." Mireille felt the Japanese girl's eyes on her back. "What's that?"  
  
Mireille handed it to her. Kirika read it and gasped. Highly annoyed with herself for not being able to read Japanese, Mireille closed her eyes and called back, "What does it say?"  
  
Kirika lowered the paper. Her lips barely moved.  
  
"It says, 'The contract?' ." 


	8. Flashback: The coffee shop

Rosebuds, Chapter 8  
  
It was dark by the time the still-worried Mireille pulled into a parking space behind their hotel. Kirika, on the other hand, was fast asleep in the backseat, the slip of paper on the floor. Mireille woke her up, hoping she hadn't given whatever malady she had had to her partner, and together they made the passage upstairs.  
  
Mireille didn't have to wait for the familiar beep to know that she had mail-and she knew whom it would be from. Kirika, on the other hand, went straight to bed and fell asleep again. This bothered Mireille, who would have preferred very much to be able to discuss details with her. Instead she was forced to sit at the desk, reading alone in the dark.  
  
The client was getting impatient, their choice of words becoming less and less polite. They knew that the pair was in Japan; why hadn't they made any moves yet?  
  
Mireille minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head. What troubled her most was the fact that the client had been there at the pool today, watching them, tracking their every movement. Mentally she scolded herself for letting herself relax so much that she hadn't noticed anyone touching their things. Still, her pink lips curved into a smile as she relived the memory of flipping Kirika's raft over.  
  
She considered the consequences of taking the contract. It would not be an easy task for two young women to purchase guns for no apparent reason in Japan, but that wasn't the worst of it. Mireille simply wasn't sure if she wanted to do it at all. They were not in any immediate need for money due to all the contracts they had completed before. Yet Mireille thought back to those days she had worked with Kirika just after they returned to France, before they had heard anything about Soldats. She knew in her heart that she still had no emotions towards killing. She had been brought up that way. Kirika was now her best friend, but not her partner. Sometimes even Mireille missed the deep partnership that they had once shared, completely understanding each other's thoughts without trading a word or glance.  
  
Yes, it would be nice to share that understanding again. Mireille stretched lazily and reminded herself to work out more. She wondered if she could still run down a hallway quickly enough to avoid the bullets. It had been years since she'd tried.  
  
For the first time, Mireille's mind was open to taking the contract. Still, it was too early to answer. She closed the window and shut down her computer.  
  
She'd give it more thought tomorrow.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika was up before Mireille, much to the Corsican blonde's relief. She had been worried that she was sick.  
  
That fear returned when Kirika returned to bed shortly after making two cups of tea. Mireille considered fishing out the thermometer, then gave up the notion after noticing that Kirika was fast asleep. There wasn't much of anything she could do for her now. Mireille picked up her purse, left Kirika a brief note, and departed from the hotel room. If she stayed here she'd worry about Kirika and the contract, knowing that her every move was being documented.  
  
She wasn't in the mood for shopping, and without a translator that would be virtually impossible anyway. Just the same, she took a look in a few shops, eventually coming to stop at a nearby coffee-shop. As she stepped in, she remembered a paragraph from her Japanese book.  
  
Japanese kissaten, or coffee shops, are common spots for students or friends to meet after classes. They serve a limited menu of small sandwiches and snacks along with both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. Unlike most other restaurants and coffee shops around the world, however, the Japanese commonly spend hours talking, reading, or just listening to the music after ordering just one cup of coffee. Mireille smiled as she entered, happy that she finally knew something about the Japanese culture.  
  
In a halting, choppy medley of Japanese and French she managed to order a cup of coffee. The Corsican blonde had chosen a seat off to the side, where she could think alone. She thought about Kirika and half-wished that her partner could be there, sitting across from her as they sipped coffee together.  
  
She lifted the cup to her lips, took a sip, and blanched, exerting extreme self-control to keep herself from spitting the mouthful back into the cup. This was nothing like the coffee she knew, if it could even be called coffee. She'd never tasted such a strong and bitter concoction. The other Japanese around her were clearly enjoying it, however, occasionally throwing an interested glance at the young blonde woman.  
  
Mireille ducked her head down and cupped the mug in her hands, mentally re- listing the pros and cons of the contract, wishing she had a piece of paper to write them down on. Obtaining the guns, she reasoned, wouldn't be too much of a problem with the use of the Internet and Kirika's perfect Japanese skills. She knew where the school was and Kirika knew almost every room of it. In addition, their client's last email had contained an attachment of the school's blueprints, the principal's office clearly circled in not red, but a deep black that clearly contrasted with the pale blue lines that made up the walls. Mireille had already printed it out but not told Kirika anything.  
  
Sooner or later, Mireille admitted, they would need money. She loved her life as a librarian, but mostly she was still living off money from her previous contracts. Now there was Kirika to support as well and as Kirika wasn't teaching anymore, she wasn't bringing in any income. There were no problems now, but as for the future, Mireille could only hope.  
  
She considered the bad side of the contract. Of course, there was the constant danger, but she and Kirika had both been through that more times than they could count. Her biggest concern on that side of the pro/con chart was Kirika's personal feelings. She knew nothing about the school and could easily blast a hole through a few walls, but she wasn't sure how Kirika would feel. Perhaps it would seem as though she had made a complete cycle and returned to her school as a completely different person. Whatever those feelings were, Mireille was fairly convinced that Kirika wouldn't go in and immediately begin shooting down students.  
  
"May I sit with you, mademoiselle?"  
  
Surprised, Mireille looked up. A young man-French, it seemed, was standing beside the empty seat facing her, smiling kindly. "Yes, of course." She cast a cautious gaze around the coffee shop. It was quite full; of course that was why he had chosen to sit here. She relaxed and smiled.  
  
"Merci." He sat down and smiled at her. Mireille guessed that he could only be in his late twenties or early thirties, judging by his young face and the still-blond hair. "You are French, I suppose?"  
  
Corsican, thought Mireille, but now was not the time to get into family histories. "Yes," she replied. "It seems that you are too."  
  
He laughed warmly. "In blood, yes," he said, "though I have lived in Japan for so many years, I feel just like a Japanese man." His laughter was warm and kind and somehow invited Mireille to join in. Her mind raced. Her only encounter with men had been with one finger on the trigger of her Walther and the male facing the dark depths of the gun barrel; she had never been in such a situation before. She had to say something, though; he was obviously expecting a response.  
  
"I-I'm here on vacation," she stumbled.  
  
He nodded in understanding. "Tokyo is a rather popular place for tourists nowadays. Are you studying Japanese?"  
  
"I'm trying," Mireille replied modestly, "although I must say I'm not doing very well."  
  
His laughter was beginning to worry her-it was not the cold, wicked laugh of Soldats' men, nor was it the friendly laugh of her Uncle Claude. She felt herself drawn to it, wanting to bask in the warmness, yet kept pulling back.  
  
"-hard for the foreigner." She suddenly noticed that he was talking and colored a bit. "But after living here, it begins to come naturally."  
  
"Yes, I suppose."  
  
The waitress stopped by their table and the man ordered a cup of coffee. Obviously not minding the taste, he sipped at it for a long time, then lowered the mug with a gentle clunk. "You are not going to drink yours?" he asked, gesturing to her cup.  
  
Mireille blushed again and embarrassedly admitted, "I don't care much for the taste. It's quite different from what we have at home."  
  
"I see." He took another sip. "So, how long have you been staying in Japan?"  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika woke up feeling cold and clammy, and a surge of worry shot through her slim body as she glanced at the clock. How could she have possibly slept so late? Her eyes strayed to the piece of paper on the bedside table.  
  
Gone out. Will be back later.  
  
That would explain Mireille's absence, thought Kirika. She stood up and put on her sandals slowly, feeling as if each movement sucked more energy out of her. It took her all of ten minutes to get to the ground floor of their hotel.  
  
Mireille had probably gone shopping, thought Kirika, remembering that she had brought her purse and not the little red and white striped bag that she usually carried. She shuffled slowly down the row of shops, stopping in front of each one to check if Mireille was inside. Halfway down the street, she spotted the Corsican blonde through the coffee shop's large glass paneled windows, just across the street. Kirika walked over slowly, feeling oddly off balance.  
  
She stopped short upon reaching the curb. Mireille's back was to her, but it was obvious that she was chatting with a young man sitting opposite her. A young man Kirika recognized.  
  
Andre Charbonneau. The innocent target.  
  
Kirika remembered that she hadn't told Mireille of her experience yet. Consequently, she realized, Mireille had no idea who she was talking to. She entered the shop and slowly walked to their table, trying to seem as lively as she could.  
  
"Kirika," exclaimed Mireille, surprised. Her mouth curved into a smile that instantly faded into extreme concern as she noticed Kirika's pale cheeks and languid demeanor. She struggled for words, remembered that she couldn't speak freely, then realized that she didn't even know the man's name, but introductions must be done. In a semi-cheery voice-the best she could manage-she said, "My friend. Tomodachi."  
  
It came out sounding rather strangled, but the Frenchman didn't notice. He stood up and extended a hand to Kirika, who reluctantly took it. As their eyes met, Kirika watched intently for any signs of recognition, but there were none. He hadn't noticed her that day.  
  
Mireille broke the tension by quickly saying, "You don't look well at all. We'd better head back," she added, directing the last sentence towards her coffee-sipping partner. "It was nice to meet you."  
  
"It was a pleasure."  
  
Neither asked for the other's name, but Mireille's sole concern at the moment was to get Kirika home and bundle her into bed. The Japanese girl's face was so pale at this point that Mireille feared she would faint on the way back.  
  
"Mireiyu," Kirika murmured, trying to keep her thoughts from collapsing into one jumbled mass, "that man-"  
  
"Don't talk." Kirika was walking so slowly now that Mireille stopped to throw her arm around her shoulder. "This isn't the time for such things. Why did you decide to come out looking for me in this state? You look like you're going to faint."  
  
As Mireille pushed on, Kirika cast one last glance at the coffee shop. Andre Charbonneau was watching them, and waved. Before Kirika could respond, Mireille pulled her away.  
  
"We have time to go window-shopping later. Right now, you need to get into bed." 


	9. Flashback: An affirmative answer

Rosebuds, Chapter 9  
  
It seemed like ages to Mireille before they were facing their hotel door again-and reminded her of their days in the Middle East. At least Kirika wasn't dripping blood this time from an untreated wound, she thought, as she fumbled with the key.  
  
Not even bothering to close the door, her first action was to get Kirika to her bed. Quite willingly Kirika lay down and Mireille worked furiously at the buckles on her sandals. When both shoes were off and on the floor, Mireille placed several blankets over her, then shut the door.  
  
"Mireiyu."  
  
Mireille turned. "What is it? You really need to rest, you know."  
  
Kirika's eyes were closed and the fractured sentence escaped her lips as fragments. Mireille could only catch "man" and "coffee shop".  
  
"Really," she said, locking the door and coming over to Kirika's side, "I don't know what you're getting yourself all worked up about. We drank coffee and talked, nothing more." Mireille opened her mouth to continue, then remembered the way his laugh made her feel. Quickly she added, "It's nothing to worry about."  
  
Kirika was asleep.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Their first week in Japan passed quickly and before long there were only seven days. Mireille was getting daily emails from the much-irritated client now and she was actually quite interested in taking the contract, but with Kirika half delirious, she didn't dare give an affirmative answer yet. Mireille was still concerned about Kirika's feelings about the whole contract deal, but the more pressing problem was whether or not Kirika would be in good enough shape to even consider carrying out such a task.  
  
Three days after the coffee shop incident, Kirika was strong enough to sit up in bed and sip at some tea. Mireille sat on the couch beside her, and gently broke the news of the contract to her, listing out the positive and negative aspects.  
  
"Kirika," she said quietly, "we don't have to take it if you don't want to."  
  
Kirika didn't look at Mireille for a long time. Finally, she lowered her head and whispered, "Let's take it."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Mireille went back to her computer and pressed reply. Just one line would suffice.  
  
I will undertake the case.  
  
She didn't sign it.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika sat in bed, a blanket draped over her legs, as Mireille squatted on the floor beside her, using the bed for a table. The blueprints of Tsubaki High School were spread out on the bed between them and Mireille was drawing wide circles with a red marker. Kirika was to serve solely as distraction while Mireille carried out the assassination.  
  
"It shouldn't take more than thirty minutes," she said with an air of nonchalance, ".although teenaged students might be more panicky than adults."  
  
Kirika didn't reply. In a monotone she replied, "I can handle them."  
  
Mireille was silent for a while, thinking this over.  
  
"Maybe you'd better get your student uniform from your old apartment and disguise yourself as a student," she said. Although Kirika was nearly twenty-three years old by now, her build was still that of a young girl.  
  
Kirika nodded.  
  
"I can get your uniform," she said, "and we'll need you to get the guns sometime soon. We have only a week left, although obviously the assassination will have to be staged towards the end so we can be out of here soon after."  
  
"I can do that tomorrow," Kirika said.  
  
Mireille shook her head. "You'd better stay in bed and rest. And you'll have to try on your uniform to ensure that it still fits-can you hide your gun in that bag you used to carry?"  
  
"Hai."  
  
"Kirika, are you sure you want to do this?" Mireille fidgeted, not knowing how to explain what she felt-that Kirika was simply going along with her and didn't really want to do it.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"All right."  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille couldn't help but laugh at the image Kirika made in her school uniform. She was every inch the perfect little schoolgirl, innocently clutching her bag, which would contain the lethal Beretta.  
  
"What will you be wearing?" asked Kirika, who had grown quite open to the idea over the past few days. "It'll be a lot harder for you than me to enter the school. I'll just slip in with the students."  
  
"True." Mireille looked at Kirika again and smothered a snicker. "I don't suppose I would quite fit in if I wore a school uniform."  
  
It was Kirika's turn to laugh, picturing the tall Corsican blonde in a group of Japanese schoolgirls, as Mireille searched through her bag.  
  
"I could wear this," she said slowly, holding up a purple halter-top and some tan-colored pants. "After all, nothing will keep me from being seen, no matter what I wear. If only I could change colors at will, like a chameleon." This drew another fit of giggles from Kirika.  
  
Later that evening they sat down on the bed, the map between them. Mireille explained everything calmly and Kirika followed on, occasionally interjecting nods or an occasional "un". Mireille would be waiting in the back of the school until all the students entered-that signal would be clearly delivered by the bell. Kirika, on the other hand, was to mingle with the students and enter with them. The gun would be ready for action, but she would not shoot unless she absolutely had to. When the coast was clear Mireille would enter through a back exit and slowly make her way to the principal's office. If all went well, a quick shot from her Walther would ensure the principal's death. She would be waiting for Kirika on the other side of the street, calmly reading a magazine under the trees in the park. No matter whether the plan was successful or not, Kirika was to leave the school after an hour.  
  
Kirika was still experiencing mixed feelings. It wasn't so much the killing of innocent students that bothered her now, it was the innocence of the target. She didn't know why it bothered her, for she knew that the guilty would likely die at Mireille's hands anyway. It had never bothered her in the past what their targets had done-they were simply targets. However, she simply couldn't shake the feeling that more had gone on than an ordinary conversation over coffee at the coffee shop.  
  
It wasn't her business anyway. Kirika resumed listening to Mireille.  
  
There were just two days until the planned assassination.  
  
Author's Note: Okay I have a stupid question. . . I'm using word; how do you make it show up in italic font? grrr I've tried everything I can think of, to no avail. . . 


	10. Flashback: The Innocent Target, Part I

Rosebuds, Chapter 10  
  
Kirika opened her eyes slowly and turned her head to the right. Mireille was standing in front of the window, the soft breeze rippling through her hair. She could hear the chirping of birds and the soft hum of traffic down below them. All this swept through her mind as she remembered their task for the day, which now seemed heinous.  
  
"You're awake."  
  
It was more of a statement than a question, and the Corsican blonde didn't even turn as she issued the words from her mouth.  
  
"Un."  
  
Mireille turned from the window and closed the window with a soft clunk, closing out the sounds of nature. Her expression was one of gentle concern. "Are you ready?"  
  
"Un." Kirika climbed out of bed, feeling strangely energized, and crossed the room to where her school uniform lay on the table. Mireille was already dressed and by the looks of it, had been up for awhile already.  
  
"I made tea. Sorry it won't be nearly as good as yours," she apologized, then began rattling off directions. "I'm going to park on the car in the parking lot of your apartment. About fifteen minutes before class is due to start, you can start walking towards the school. I'll wait a couple more minutes before heading to the back of the school. And once the bell rings, we'll start."  
  
"Okay." Kirika's voice was muffled as she pulled the top over her head. Her bag contained a notebook and some paper and pens to hide the gun and to puff up the bag a bit. For Mireille, there was no choice but to carry her Walther in her hand. She had been hoping desperately that they could get in some target practice, as neither had handled a gun in five years, but that had been impossible. It was a miracle that they were each carrying the same gun that they had used before, however.  
  
Fully attired now, Kirika turned to look at Mireille. The Corsican blonde was tucking magazines into her pockets. Kirika's were already stored in her bag. She closed her eyes, trying to remember every nook and cranny of Tsubaki High School.  
  
"Are you sure you're all right?" Mireille asked in concern, trying to force another magazine into her pocket. The edge of the fabric tore and she gave up.  
  
"Yes," insisted Kirika.  
  
Mireille shrugged and put a loose-fitting jacket on to hide the bulges in her pockets. "Come on, let's go."  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Five minutes later they were parked in an inconspicuous space behind the apartment building. Kirika seemed composed and perfectly ready to do what was needed; Mireille, on the other hand, kept checking her watch and feeling the bulges in her pockets to make sure no magazines had fallen out. The jacket was still on for now, but she intended to abandon it as soon as she entered the school.  
  
"Just a few minutes left." She lowered her arm again. Kirika had no reaction to this statement. Mireille leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. "Japanese schools do start early. You can go ahead if you want."  
  
She didn't open her eyes. Only the slam of a car door alerted her to the fact that Kirika was on her way. Slowly she watched Kirika walk off towards the school. There was nothing disturbing about her appearance-she looked exactly like a student. How she would convince a teacher to let her join the class was a potential problem, but Mireille was sure that Kirika would be able to solve that. She checked her watch again. Kirika was a tiny little figure in the distance by now.  
  
When her partner was out of site, Mireille tucked her gun into the biggest pocket of the jacket and nonchalantly walked down the street. She placed a popular Japanese magazine on a nearby bench, then took the long way around, circling to the back of the school until she found the door she was looking for.  
  
It wasn't a door by which people commonly entered and exited, she realized. The door was dark blue and windowless, therefore keeping her from seeing what was inside. She would have to hope for the best. Mireille sat down behind a fold in the wall and kept her gun ready.  
  
Kirika walked quietly over to the students and joined them, though not speaking to any of them. She exchanged smiles with a few that seemed overly friendly, but quickly moved on, choosing instead to stand by herself by the door. She didn't have a watch but there were at least a good ten minutes until the bell would ring.  
  
Just eleven minutes left, thought Mireille, checking her watch again.  
  
Kirika kept her expression carefully blank, avoiding the glances of the other students. Tsubaki High School was a famous one, with several thousand students, so it was no surprise to notice a student that one had never seen before. In her small build and matching uniform, Kirika was simply assumed to be one of them.  
  
Eight minutes. . .  
  
Kirika was tapped on the shoulder. One of the girls, much to her despair, had brought over her friends and was now introducing them. She put on a cheery smile and exchanged polite greetings with each of them, telling them her name was Nagamine but not really listening to what any of them were saying.  
  
"I hope the visitor is interesting," one of the girls said, suddenly catching Kirika's attention. "Sen'sei said he's quite a famous biologist."  
  
Mireille checked her watch again. Five minutes left.  
  
"So, Nagamine, what's your favorite subject?" asked one of the girls interestedly.  
  
"Mathematics," said Kirika, saying the first thing that came to mind, then quickly added, "although I like biology too. I'm hoping to learn a lot from our visitor today."  
  
One of the other girls made a face. "I don't like it at all, but my family says it's very important. Everyone in my family has been a doctor and they're expecting me to be one too."  
  
"Ayanami," laughed the first girl. "You dislike anything that involves studying."  
  
"Hai," she replied, and they all laughed.  
  
Two minutes left. . . Mireille looked at her watch, wishing the hand would move quickly. She was getting tired of sitting outside and fraying her nerves, worrying about what was behind that door.  
  
"Where do we go first today?" asked Ayanami. "Do we go to class, or to the auditorium?"  
  
"The auditorium, I believe," answered a tall brunette. "I can't wait!"  
  
The bell rang, a loud noise overhead that made Kirika cringe. At once all conversations ceased and the students began filing silently into the school. As they were the closest to the door, Kirika and her new "friends" were among the first to enter.  
  
"You must sit with us," said the tall brunette girl, coming to Kirika's left side. "By the way, my name is Shiori."  
  
"My name is Nagamine," said Kirika, although her mind was focused solely on how she would get out of this auditorium, "and thank you for the offer."  
  
Mireille was still outside, biding her time. She wanted the students settled in class before she launched her attack. She was hoping to take as few lives as possible.  
  
Kirika was led into a large auditorium with movie theater-like seats that she didn't remember visiting before. Fortunately, the girls took up a long row of seats and Kirika took the second to last seat. Shiori sat between her and the aisle. The exit was not far from the row, either.  
  
"I don't like our seats," she heard Ayanami saying. "I can't see anything."  
  
"It doesn't matter since you're not going to pay attention anyway," reminded another girl, and the girls giggled. A teacher walking by shot them a glare.'  
  
The lights dimmed and a man walked onto the stage, greeted by much applause. He gave a few words by way of introduction, then launched into his long speech about his research and years of hard work. Kirika tuned him out and focused on Mireille. If all had gone well, she should be inside the school already. Her bag rested in her lap, the gun well within reach.  
  
Five minutes had passed since the bell had run. Mireille tossed off her jacket, pulled out her gun, and threw the door open.  
  
A ear-piercing alarm went off and Mireille gasped in shock, her eyes taking in the sight of the storage room. She heard footsteps coming her way and knew that there was only one choice: to run and shoot her way out. She reached behind her, thinking to escape the way she had come, but to her surprise the door was locked. The footsteps were getting louder.  
  
Mireille ran towards the other door and slammed into somebody, knocking him over. She fired two quick gunshots, silencing him, then ran out into the open school. The alarm continued to ring. Why hadn't this been on the blueprints? she thought furiously.  
  
She heard more footsteps and leaned against a corner, waiting for them to show themselves. Mireille swung her gun around the corner, ready to fire a shot, then realized that her gun was pointed towards no one at all-it was pointed towards a camera.  
  
She stared in shock. The little red light flashed lazily.  
  
The alarm sent a wave of panic through the students in the auditorium, many of which jumped and were now using various objects to cover their ears. The famous biologist tried to continue delivering his speech, but no one was listening. Teachers jumped up and began running for the exits. Kirika jumped to her feet, pulled out her Beretta, and fired nine gunshots in succession. She scrambled out from her seat, taking her bag with her, and tripped over Shiori. The brunette promptly screamed. Most students were hiding, crouching in the tight spots under the chairs.  
  
But Kirika wasn't interested in killing any of them. She turned and ran out of the auditorium.  
  
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at trying to recreate some of the action that we saw so much in the series. . . and as for the girls' names, I don't know anything about Japanese names, so I borrowed Ayanami from Evangelion, Shiori from Utena, and Nagamine from Hoshi no Koe (Voices of a Distant Star). I don't own either of those either : ) 


	11. Flashback: The Innocent Target, Part II

Rosebuds, Chapter 11  
  
The camera exploded in a shower of metal and plastic with one carefully aimed shot from Mireille's Walther. Being careful not to step on the debris, she hurried down the hallway. Students were pouring out of classrooms now and teachers were desperate to keep order. Girls were shrieking and howling. One of the boys actually launched himself at Mireille, grabbing for her gun, but he was no match for the Corsican blonde. She threw him to the ground and turned the corner, just in time to hear a grunt of pain. She wondered briefly why she hadn't shot him.  
  
Kirika was well aware that half the school would be following her as she raced down the familiar hallways, carefully selecting ones that would lead away from the office. Teachers were running madly after her now, but she hesitated to shoot. In truth, she didn't want to take any more lives than she had to.  
  
She turned a corner and stopped short, her heart sinking. There were cameras everywhere. If she or Mireille were caught on footage, it would be unlikely that they would be able to get out of the country without being caught and given a trial. She shattered them with several gunshots, shooting down more as she ran.  
  
Mireille's high heels were no longer clicking on the tiled floor; she was now walking on a sheet of off-white carpet. Just down the hallway she could see the offices, exactly as the blueprints had showed. Her only tasks now were to get through the secretaries to the office, put one well-aimed bullet in the target's head, and get outside. Mentally she scolded herself for messing up the plan. Leaning against the wall, she carefully made her way forward. The alarm had been shut off, but blood was pounding so loudly in her ears that she hardly noticed.  
  
She swung herself around to face the first room, her gun ready and pointed, then lowered it. Surprisingly, there was nobody there. She took a step inside.  
  
A bullet whizzed by her temple and shattered the wall behind her. Mireille ducked for cover under the desk and returned fire. She heard a groan and a thud. Slowly crawling out, she saw the man she had shot.  
  
He was a Japanese man, not much taller than she was, which was rather short. In his shaking hand he held a pistol.  
  
"You figured it out?" he asked, his voice barely quavering although she could see his body shaking. "You know he was a decoy?"  
  
Mireille merely glared at him. Feeling no mercy at all, she fired one more shot.  
  
By now, Kirika had shot down more cameras than she could count. She hadn't remembered security being so tight in this place.  
  
Suddenly a piece of cloth lowered over her face, obstructing her vision and closing over her mouth. Kirika struggled to get free, but her captors held her tight. Somebody else was pulling at the gun, but she held tight and fired a shot. There was a girlish, feminine scream followed by a thud on the floor.  
  
"Shiori!" she heard her captor scream. She recognized the voice then-it was Ayanami who was holding her captive. More footsteps were rapidly growing louder and Kirika knew she had no choice. She aimed the gun over her shoulder and fired twice. Immediately the pressure on her head loosened and the cloth-she saw that it was a simple handkerchief-fell loosely to the ground.  
  
The tall brunette was dead. Kirika didn't have to look at her to know that. But Ayanami was still clinging to life, supporting her body with her left arm. There was a large tear in the left shoulder of her uniform.  
  
"We TRIED to befriend you!" she ground out, her face contorted with fury. Angry insults and curses flew freely, but Kirika didn't reply. When the girl at last stopped for breath, the expressionless Kirika lifted her gun and fired a single shot. She closed her eyes as Ayanami's body crashed the last few inches to the ground.  
  
She'd killed two innocent students. The guilt surged through her as she ran, shooting down cameras. Behind her, she heard the footsteps coming to a stop. Voices rang out in the cold air, first expressing shock and horror, then transforming into wails and sobs for the dead girls. Kirika stopped in a corner to put another magazine in her gun.  
  
There was only one door in front of her now. Mireille had memorized the characters from the blueprint, spelling out "Principal's Office" above the English translation. This was it. She tossed open the door.  
  
She was facing the back of his head. The target sat at his desk, facing away from her. He was obviously not reading or writing, as he wasn't bending over. He sat up straight in his relaxing chair, only the top of his blonde head visible.  
  
"You're here."  
  
He spoke in Japanese, apparently not knowing that she spoke little of the language. It took a few moments for the meaning of the words to sink in.  
  
"Hai. Koko ni imasu."  
  
There was a short pause. "You know everything?"  
  
"Don't toy with me!" snapped Mireille in French, having not understood the last sentence. She held her gun up, aimed at that semi-circle of blonde hair. She would have preferred a better target, but she couldn't see a way to get one other than running around to the other side of his desk, which would leave an escape route open for him.  
  
The room was dimmer than she'd imagined. There were two windows to the west, which let in a bit of light, but the room was filled with bookshelves, cluttering up the space. She wondered how he could work in here.  
  
He laughed. Something in that voice made Mireille shiver. Then the man she knew only as Andre Charbonneau pushed backwards in his chair and turned around.  
  
Her mouth and his mouth formed identical o's of shock. Mireille gasped, the Walther buckling in her hand for the first time. His eyes widened in shock, then slowly returned to their normal size.  
  
"Go ahead and shoot." He closed his eyes.  
  
Mireille couldn't get a grip on the trigger. If only she had sent Kirika in. . . Kirika would shoot immediately, with no feelings of surprise or guilt. Suddenly she remembered Kirika's expression upon seeing them at the coffee shop-Kirika had known. The gun threatened to fall from her hand and she put up her other hand to keep it steady.  
  
"Your Japanese isn't that bad, mademoiselle." He lifted his head and opened his eyes. "Well?"  
  
Mireille turned and ran.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika had long since lost track of the time. Of course, she was supposed to meet Mireille outside, but she highly doubted that the blonde would be sitting on a bench outside pretending to read a magazine at this time.  
  
She had barricaded herself in a classroom and locked the door. She crouched down on the floor under the row of windows opposing the door and tried to think. There was no way to tell if Mireille had succeeded in assassinating the target yet. She was still unscathed, but getting out of the school unscathed-and without her wrists in pair of handcuffs-wouldn't be too easy.  
  
Kirika could hear voices outside. She stretched out and lay down, her body parallel to the windowsills. It wouldn't be long before they came to check in this classroom. The windows weren't too high; perhaps she could climb out of one of them once the search party had left this part of the school. She looked down at the tiled floor and saw the shadows of her searchers.  
  
Kirika closed her eyes. Nothing had gone as planned. They had been hoping that Kirika wouldn't have to fire a single shot. If only Mireille could sneak in quietly, silence a few people, and kill the target-then leave the same way. Instead she had set the alarm off and Kirika had been forced to kill nine teachers and two students and destroy many cameras along the way.  
  
She closed her eyes and waited with bated breath even after the shadows and voices were gone.  
  
Then Kirika crept up slowly and started trying to open the window, hoping that there were no alarms on them. They were large panels of glass that seemed to have never been opened. Fumbling with the lock one-handedly did little good and finally Kirika had to put her gun down and use both hands.  
  
The door burst open behind her and Kirika gasped. Teachers and students alike poured in and Kirika reached for her gun, but one of the students knocked her over with a punch. She kicked him hard and came back to her feet, but not before two teachers grabbed her by the arms. A second boy picked up her gun and her bag.  
  
"We've got her," one of the teachers radioed. They began dragging Kirika out of the room.  
  
But Kirika was not ready to give in without a fight. She was wearing hard- soled shoes, the kind that all Japanese schoolchildren wear, and she stamped down hard on the toes of one of the teachers. He gave a yelp and stepped backwards, releasing her. With the free arm Kirika punched the other teacher in the face and ran towards the windows.  
  
She jumped onto a desk, kicking over another student. Briefly she turned, considering getting her gun, but there was no chance of that. More backup was coming, and there was no way she could make a route out to the door. Nor could she open the window.  
  
Kirika took a deep breath and smashed her body through the glass. 


	12. Flashback: The aftermath

Rosebuds, Chapter 12  
  
Mireille ran out of the office and towards the nearest exit, firing random shots at anyone who intervened. She was so panicked that few of them hit their targets. Fortunately, this was a school, and most people weren't armed.  
  
She shattered one last camera, then exited the school. Several teachers tried to follow, but she fired a few fairly accurate shots at the door that blew holes through the wood and kept anyone else from following. Mireille kept running, her gun aimed backwards over her shoulder, until she reached the safety of the woods.  
  
Then she remembered. She was supposed to meet Kirika at that bench just across the street. Glancing across, she could see that the magazine was gone.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
On the other side of the school, Kirika lay dazed in a pile of glass, feeling as if she were being pricked all over by tiny needles. It was no wonder-her arms and legs were cut and bruised and her neck ached fiercely. She moved her limbs gingerly, wincing from the pain. Nothing seemed to be broken. Besides, she had endured far worse.  
  
A second pane of glass shattered over her, showering her in broken pieces of glass-and surprisingly, her Beretta. Kirika grabbed it and put her free hand down and tried to back away, cutting her hand in the process. Students were now climbing out of the window carefully one at a time, trying to avoid being cut. Kirika struggled to her feet, limping a bit-it seemed that she had twisted an ankle in the fall-and ran as quickly as she could towards the apartment building. She had no choice but to shoot the students that chose to follow; they could outrun her easily.  
  
She entered a different building and ran outside again through the back, hoping to confuse them. The bench was empty. Where was Mireille? Kirika didn't even have a key to the car. She was dripping blood everywhere and couldn't run much farther with her ankle.  
  
"Kirika!"  
  
Having seemingly appeared out of nowhere, Mireille grabbed the collar of her uniform and dragged her out of sight. "What happened to you? Never mind, we don't have time for that. Get in the car."  
  
Kirika gasped painfully at Mireille's rough touch. Mireille stopped and glanced down. "What happened to your foot?"  
  
"I-I think I twisted my ankle," Kirika ground out. Mireille groaned. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's fine." Mireille heaved Kirika's arm around her shoulder and put her other arm around Kirika's waist. "Come on, if it's that bad you can hop along."  
  
The ragged pair made their way to the car. By now Mireille was covered in Kirika's blood as well, but she said nothing as she opened the car door. "Can you lie down in the back, not on the seat but down where you would normally put your feet?"  
  
"Hai." Kirika crawled in gingerly, knowing that they couldn't afford to let anyone see her. Even somebody who didn't know about the killings at Tsubaki High School would be sure to ask plenty of questions. Mireille slammed the door and got into the driver's seat, wiping brusquely at her bloodied shirt. Her jacket had been unfortunately left outside the door of the storage room, or it would have been put to great use, covering up the blood.  
  
"Do you have your gun?" asked Mireille cautiously, as she backed out of the parking space.  
  
"Un."  
  
Mireille didn't respond. The guns might come in handy to kill anybody else that needed to die for them to escape, but if they were stopped by a policeman who decided to search their car. . . Mireille winced at the thought of a policeman finding a car with two bloodied women owning guns, not far from the recent killings at a local high school.  
  
Upon arriving at their own hotel, they faced another problem: how to get back to their room without anyone noticing. Mireille was unscathed, but walking into the hotel with completely bloodied clothes was sure to attract plenty of attention. Kirika, on the other hand, hadn't uttered a sound on the way back but Mireille noticed that her ankle was swelling up rapidly now. They could take the stairs, which would obviously be much harder but less likely to have people, or they could take the fast route-the elevator- and risk being pelted with all sorts of questions. They unanimously chose the stairs.  
  
"Are you sure you can walk up the stairs?" Mireille asked.  
  
"Hai. I've been through worse."  
  
Images of the Middle East flashed through her mind. "Well, we can't have you dripping blood everywhere or we'll be sure to get caught." She eyed Kirika's bloody body and looked around the car desperately. There was nothing they could use to wipe the cuts. Kirika sat up, groaning a little as she did so, and tore off a shred of her skirt. Mireille took it and cleaned Kirika up as best as she could.  
  
"Are we bringing the guns?" asked Kirika.  
  
Mireille stopped to ponder this. The shred of black pleated fabric was soaked in her hand. "Leave yours here for the time being," she decided. "You're not in any shape to be chasing a target anyway."  
  
Target was a strange choice of words, but Kirika ignored it. She struggled out the door, leaning on Mireille for support, and one-leggedly made her way towards the building. They would enter through the south exit, which according to Mireille was closest to the stairs.  
  
"I should have gotten a room on the first floor," muttered Mireille. Kirika's pace was getting slower and more painful with every step. Mireille considered picking her up and carrying her up the last flight of stairs but knew that it was impractical; besides, she was a mess of nerves herself and would probably drop her partner. "We're almost there."  
  
"Un."  
  
I should have never accepted this contract, thought Mireille.  
  
At long last they reached their door and Mireille opened it. Kirika stumbled inside by herself and Mireille locked the door securely, twisting the doorknob several times to be sure. Immediately Kirika made for the bed, but Mireille steered her towards the bathroom.  
  
"I'll bring you a fresh change of clothes as soon as we get you cleaned up," she said, deftly wringing out a white washcloth and dipping it in some antiseptic. Kirika winced at the touch and immediately colored. Five years ago she would have thought nothing of some cuts and bruises that might have needed a few stitches, but today she was different.  
  
"Sorry," Mireille apologized. Kirika sat on the edge of the bathtub, her swollen ankle resting on a folded towel. "You're going to need stitches for that cut on your hand."  
  
"All right," said Kirika blandly, though she was dreading it.  
  
Mireille left the bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit that had been brought from France. Kirika winced and turned away, gritting her teeth and feeling embarrassed that she should be afraid of such a little pain. Mireille didn't say anything as she put nineteen stitches in Kirika's palm.  
  
"Just try not to move it for awhile," Kirika heard. "Now let's see about your ankle."  
  
Mireille was wrapping a fresh bandage around her hand now. The ankle, on the other hand, was puffed up and had turned various shades of black and green and yellow and purple. Mireille asked her to try and move it, which she did painfully.  
  
"Well, at least nothing's broken," said Mireille, trying to sound cheerful. She wrapped a second bandage around the ankle and taped small adhesive bandages over Kirika's cuts. "I'll get you some clothes."  
  
Kirika dressed herself in a pair of comfortable shorts and an oversized T- shirt of Mireille's, but Mireille had to help her to bed.  
  
"I'll make lunch," she told her partner.  
  
But as she chopped vegetables, the face she had seen came back to haunt her. For the first time she had failed in a contract. The irony of it- becoming friends with one you were destined to kill just days before the killing. Mireille thought she heard Kirika's voice calling and came out to investigate.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Kirika paused. "Did you kill him?"  
  
There was a longer pause on Mireille's side before she lowered her head. "No."  
  
"I see," said Kirika quietly, and closed her eyes. Mireille watched her for a while, wishing that she would open her eyes, and when it became evident that she wouldn't, retreated back to the kitchen. 


	13. Flashback: Reflections

Rosebuds, Chapter 13  
  
The 'you have mail' sound kept beeping continually on Mireille's computer as constant emails kept coming in-from the same sender. The client was not happy with their job in Tokyo, and Mireille was not surprised. She felt rather dulled after the whole incident.  
  
The Corsican blonde leaned back in her chair, her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. Kirika lay asleep on her bed, although it was nearly noon.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Their getaway from Japan had been extremely trying for both of them. Kirika had still been having some trouble walking with her ankle, but Mireille had been insistent on not delaying their departure. Kirika had worn a long sleeved-shirt and her long jeans in order to hide her cuts and bruises despite the heat. It hadn't been particularly enjoyable to be the only person in Tokyo walking around in winter clothes in late June, but Mireille assured her that it would be cool on the plane.  
  
They had spent several hours staring at the news channel, dreading any reports that their faces had been seen and hoping that they had destroyed all cameras. Of course, the strange killings made headlines across Japan, but hardly anyone remembered any distinct details about the assassin's appearances. Students in the auditorium reported a Japanese student shooting and killing nine teachers with phenomenal accuracy, but none could remember distinct details of her face, only that she had short hair. One of the teachers who was interviewed mentioned the hundreds of short-haired girls in the school and due to the large population, it was impossible to identify her based on students' recollections since most did not know her, and she had not stood out from the crowd, because of her matching school uniform. Police demanded to know who had been sitting around her, but then dismal news arrived: Both of them had been killed. Later the two teachers who had been holding Kirika in the classroom came forward and explained her actions, but both admitted that if they saw her in a crowd of school students, they would not be able to pick her out. Kirika's schoolbag and the notebooks inside had been recovered, but they had been nameless and never used. The strongest witness had seen just a glimpse of Mireille's face. The boy she had knocked down during her first few moments in the school-the one she had wondered about not shooting-had caught a glimpse of her face. Her heart had plummeted at the news, especially when police brought the student into custody and began a thorough investigation, but either out of fear or shock he remembered little, only that the assassin had been tall, blonde, and female. Was she a foreigner, or an Asian woman who had dyed her hair blonde? police demanded. He didn't know. There were hundreds of Japanese blondes, after all.  
  
Mireille considered wearing a wig. That thought made Kirika laugh for the first time in weeks. Looking out the window, Mireille saw several Asian blondes in the span of five minutes and gave up the idea.  
  
Mireille insisted that they could not go through check-in at the airport- and especially not security-at the same time. They had not brought much baggage-Mireille had brought two carry-ons and Kirika had brought one, but just the one bag became a problem when Kirika tried to pick it up. She was just beginning to regain use of her left hand, which had all the stitches in it, so she would have to use her left hand to carry the bag, which unfortunately wasn't designed for one to carry on the shoulder. With her right ankle still bruised and swollen, Kirika was walking with a tilt to the right, and the bag added an unnecessary weight to that side. She was sure to attract attention and when people rushed to help, they would be sure to notice the cut in her hand and ask how it had happened. Japanese people had a tendency to ask many questions, which was not considered rude at all in their culture.  
  
So Mireille repacked everything, switching the contents of Kirika's bag and one of hers, which had a strap for the shoulder. By then they didn't have much time left, and after she checked and rechecked Kirika over again to make sure that no wounds showed, save for the hand, they hurried off.  
  
The Corsican blonde went through security first. Her passport and boarding pass were all in order-the attendant barely glanced at them-and a scan of her bags turned up nothing that roused suspicions.  
  
Kirika didn't get by as easily. The first thing the security agents took notice of was her ankle, but they only offered sympathy and helped her place her bag on the machine. However, the security agent raised one eyebrow upon opening her passport. Slowly he glanced from the picture to the girl in front of him, then back to the picture.  
  
"You're twenty-three years old?" he demanded in Japanese.  
  
"Hai," Kirika answered.  
  
Mireille was sitting on a bench just beyond security beside a large potted plant, pretending to enjoy a bottle of water. Somewhat hidden behind the leaves, she watched the situation worriedly. Kirika didn't look at her, although Mireille was sure she knew that she was there.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with her boarding pass," one of the other security agents told him. "What are you holding up the line for? You've been stopping every young girl since the shooting at your daughter's high school."  
  
"Please," said Kirika innocently with a hint of pleading, "I need to catch my flight."  
  
Mireille silently willed him to let Kirika go. They didn't have much time left.  
  
The guard was silent, glaring at Kirika for a long time. Then suddenly he glanced towards the bench by the potted plant. Kirika felt a spasm of fear flash through her, but Mireille was gone. Then the guard turned to the agents with just three words: "Search her bag."  
  
Kirika smothered a groan as he turned away from him and began to help the next passenger, disgruntled at the wait. The agents apologized to her but said that they had no choice.  
  
Mireille had chosen temporary refuge in a bookstore, pretending to be examining the various volumes. In her mind she was raging at the guard, waiting for him to release her partner.  
  
Finally Kirika reappeared and looked around the bookstore, making a point of accidentally bumping into Mireille before apologizing politely and hurrying off. Mireille read a few more labels before following. By then Kirika had checked in and she had just ten minutes before takeoff.  
  
As the plane left the Japanese runway, Mireille closed her eyes and drew a blanket over her shoulders, purposely speaking little to Kirika. Much like the way they had arrived, Kirika watched her homeland disappear out the window until the last tree was no longer visible and they were above a sheet of clouds.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Another beep drew Mireille out of her temporary doze. She had exactly one hundred and sixty-nine emails from the client lined up in her inbox now, one hundred and sixty-eight of them unopened. The Corsican blonde shut down her computer and left the pool table.  
  
She walked up the steps leading to their beds and leaned against the wall, watching Kirika for a while, pangs of regret shooting through her. If only I hadn't accepted this contract, we wouldn't have had to go through all this, she thought remorsefully.  
  
And then there were the students at Tsubaki High School, whose lives had either been taken or dramatically affected by the botched assassination. Mireille had killed only a security guard and someone who appeared to be a secretary-someone whose last words she still didn't understand-and hadn't felt nearly as much guilt as Kirika, who had been forced to kill nine teachers and several students, two of which might have been close friends if they had lived. Mireille had let Kirika cry in silence after the incident, not knowing how to comfort her.  
  
And lastly there was the principal that should have died at her hands. Mireille's hands curled into hard fists as she put her head on her knees, thinking about how innocent a person he had seemed. Kirika had been somewhat close to several of their targets or people that had been killed before, including Nazarov, his kitten, and her painter friend. Mireille had not understood her then, but now she did. She could still hear his laugh, filling her with happiness and making her want to laugh with him.  
  
"You know everything? You know he was a decoy?"  
  
Clean, crisp English words rang through her mind, and suddenly she realized that there was only one person who could have been the decoy: Andre Charbonneau.  
  
Decoy for what? Mireille wondered. Hiring corrupt teachers and incorrectly managing school funds?  
  
"Mireiyu?"  
  
The Corsican blonde lifted her head abruptly. "You're awake."  
  
"Un."  
  
Kirika regarded her old partner with that look that had always made Mireille feel as if she could see into her soul, but her question was unexpected: "What are you thinking about?"  
  
"Nothing." Mireille stood up and headed towards the kitchen, pushing the thoughts of Andre Charbonneau out of her mind. "What would you like for lunch?" 


	14. Flashback: A promised trip

Rosebuds, Chapter 14  
  
Author's Note: Sorry about the lack of updates! I'm intending to end this story in approximately 3-5 more chapters, but to tell the truth I've honestly run out of ideas. If anyone wants to send me some ideas, that would be very appreciated : ) Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers that have been constantly keeping up with both this story and Mireille in Japan!  
  
They would never take another contract again. If Mireille hadn't made sure of that, their last client certainly had. The Corsican blonde had just opened up her computer for the first time in weeks-and her inbox was overflowing. She resisted the urge to throw the useless piece of machinery out the window.  
  
Kirika had spoken little in the last two weeks. Her ankle was healing nicely and she could definitely walk with a nearly undetectable limp now, but she preferred to stay in bed, reading long Japanese novels that Mireille had checked out for her from her workplace. In the five years working there she had never ventured to the foreign language section and was startled by Kirika's request for something to read. Still not being able to read enough of the language, Mireille pulled random books that appeared to be novels off the shelf and checked out several at a time.  
  
It bothered her at times, seeing Kirika curled up cozily with a book that she could not understand. At these times the Japanese girl appeared to be lost in a world of her own. Mireille wondered at times what was so interesting in those books, surprised that Kirika didn't find her random choice of books disturbing. She simply devoured them, reading late into the night until the blonde was begging her to turn the light off so she could sleep.  
  
Mireille had left Kirika inside the room, intending to get some grocery shopping done, but didn't make it farther than the first staircase. Sitting down on the first stair, she balanced her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands.  
  
She felt as if she and Kirika had gone back into the past and switched places. It had always been Mireille who made every decision and Kirika who followed her. It had been Mireille who had felt so happy and content in her new life and Kirika who had wanted more attention from her. Now it seemed as if Kirika was the happy and content one, shut off from the world of worry and remorse that Mireille was wallowed in.  
  
The Corsican blonde sat there in this hunched over position for several more minutes before one of her neighbors happened to come by and asked if she was all right.  
  
"Yes," said Mireille, a bit vaguely. "Just fine."  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Kirika was hiding.  
  
The windows of the Parisian apartment were wide open and the curtains drawn back. She wasn't hidden under a table or behind a dresser; the Japanese girl simply lay on her bed, a blanket draped over her legs, and casually flipped another page. In this world she was hidden.  
  
She didn't know how Mireille could face it, but Mireille hadn't hurt the way she had-had never hurt the way Kirika was hurting. Yet Mireille was distraught; that was evident. At times Kirika considered reaching out to her, but Mireille always seemed busy doing something-and she didn't know what she would possibly say to her. And so she remained hidden in her world of storybook characters.  
  
Kirika turned another page.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Mireille was wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles, absentmindedly studying the packages of bread, none of the words and labels working their way into her mind. She had never been very choosy before-after all, what big difference was there between this brand of wheat bread and that brand of wheat bread?  
  
Wheat bread wasn't even on her shopping list.  
  
I need to stop avoiding Kirika, thought Mireille. She threw the loaf of bread back at the shelf and walked out of the store empty-handed. She had taken her moped, a nice alternative to walking. Besides, with both hands empty, she could maneuver better and felt the wind blowing in her hair.  
  
She felt alive. A clearly American couple jumped out of her way, their gift shop bags with the word "Louvre" slapping against their legs. They muttered something and Mireille was tempted to laugh. She increased her speed.  
  
In some other time she had promised Kirika she would take her sightseeing in Paris. Then the contract had come up and they had been overwhelmed with plans for a case that couldn't have gone worse.  
  
It's time we got to know each other again, thought Mireille, and cursed the contract. But for now she smiled happily, sailing down the street on her bright yellow moped.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
The Corsican blonde was amazed at how long Kirika could stare at a picture without getting bored. She had a painting or two in her apartment, but she had hardly glanced at it in the years since she'd bought it. After nearly an hour she had browsed through most of the Louvre, yet Kirika was still mesmerized with the very first painting she had encountered.  
  
"Still here?" she asked playfully.  
  
Kirika turned, her face alight with awe. "It's so beautiful. Look at the glow of the sunlight on the fabric of the umbrella-I wish I could paint like that."  
  
Mireille didn't see anything out of the ordinary about the picture, but she wasn't about to admit that to Kirika.  
  
"I like the painting you gave me better," she said stoutly, triggering a scowl from the nearest security guard. Kirika laughed-a wonderful sound.  
  
"I'm done with this painting," she said. "Let's move on to the next one."  
  
Mireille followed her docilely to the next painting, then wandered off on her own again. There was only one part of the museum that she hadn't visited yet: the sculptures.  
  
She slowly climbed up the stairs, feeling happier than she had in weeks. Kirika had seemed rather reluctant about the idea of going sightseeing at first and had posed several excuses, but by the morning of the planned trip she was almost bouncing with excitement. Mireille suspected she was just as happy to take her mind off the past as she was herself.  
  
Many of the sculptures were expressionless, their features consisting of smoothly chiseled grooves and pools in the stone or wood. Some stood and some sat, and one appeared to be of a mother bending over to her child. There was one sculpture clearly intended to be a young woman, but her face was blank. There was not even the arch of the nose or the depressions of the eyes. The artist had left the emotions completely up to the viewer's imagination. Yet the sculpture's feminine body was put in a pose that suggested she was upset or depressed, yet clearly trying to hide it. Mireille was reminded of Kirika's obsession of reading books to hide from the memories of their trip to Japan.  
  
Maybe Kirika will start painting again, thought Mireille. Now that she had brought Kirika out from between the pages of the novel, the possibilities were endless. They had talked all the way here, with only scanty pauses here and there. Kirika had smiled and laughed and Mireille had found herself laughing with her.  
  
They were on their way to getting back to their normal lives.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
The girls stood in the crowd that night, watching the fireworks explode above the famous Eiffel tower. The occasion was unknown to them, but it didn't matter. Kirika hadn't ever seen fireworks, at least not that she could remember-she had never even gone to see them on any of the five 4th of July's that she had spent in America.  
  
Earlier that afternoon, Mireille had finally managed to drag Kirika out of the Louvre around four and they had begun the drive to the Eiffel Tower. Kirika had wanted to take the stairs, but Mireille, having gone through that traumatic experience once already, insisted on the elevator. Kirika kept pausing to inspect every aspect of the tower and Mireille had a strong suspicion that she intended to paint it someday.  
  
"I'm really glad we came," she heard Kirika say. A shower of gold and purple exploded overhead, followed by oohs and ahhs. A child in the distance screamed, clearly afraid of the loud noise.  
  
"Me too." She smiled at her old partner. "Next time I'll take the stairs with you. Maybe."  
  
The sky lit up in a sea of pink and blue sparks. Surrounded by people yet secluded from all of them, the two girls who had once shared the title of Noir watched in silence. Mireille was reminded of the time Kirika had been shot and she had fired a flare into the sky, which was the last time she had seen so powerful a glow. She shook her head. Those days were over.  
  
And she was glad they were. 


	15. Flashback: Les deux modélistes

Rosebuds, Chapter 15  
  
"I like this one." Mireille's muffled voice came from the back room before the Corsican blonde emerged, glowing with eagerness. Kirika leaned over to see which design she had chosen.  
  
Mireille carried the bolt of fabric over to her desk and unrolled several yards of it. It was a mix of cotton and polyester in a pale fawn shade with darker stripes of various widths streaking across it diagonally. Kirika ran her fingers over it and slowly nodded as Mireille picked up her sketchbook and laid it on top.  
  
"We need to get a better lamp," she commented. The walls of their little office were covered with various fabric samples, and more were stored away in the back room. Most of the sunlight from the windows had been blocked out, giving the room a dark, dingy feeling. Mireille was constantly ruffling the curtain-like fabrics, trying to shake out some of the dust that she knew wasn't there.  
  
"Is that supposed to be a fold?" asked Kirika, gesturing to a few vague lines on Mireille's drawing.  
  
Mireille blushed at her lack of artistic skills. Generally she came up with the ideas and Kirika did the sketching, but this morning she'd been too eager to wait for that and had dragged Kirika out of bed and down to their office before the sun was even up. With a few hasty lines she'd sketched out a rough drawing of the shirt she had in mind. Kirika had raised an eyebrow upon seeing it.  
  
"I was thinking of a fold from the left shoulder down to the right waist," she said, "except not as wide and droopy as the one we designed yesterday." Mireille's last idea had been crumpled up and lay in the trash. She picked up the cloth and grasping the end with one hand, threw the bolt to the floor so that it could unravel on its own. "Here, let me show you."  
  
Within a few minutes Kirika understood Mireille's idea and still swathed in cloth, began to erase Mireille's lines and sketch in an exact design. Mireille sat down on her chair, facing her partner, and crossed her legs. This was how it usually went-she came up with the designs and often had to go to some lengths for Kirika to follow her train of thought before she could sketch them herself. Of course, it would have been much easier had she been able to draw her own diagrams, but Mireille found herself unfortunately lacking in that aspect. Kirika had even sketched a model onto each page of her sketchbook in hopes of making it easier, to no avail.  
  
Their designs were sent off to some obscure company in France who would then review them and decide whether or not they would sell in a real store. Although Mireille knew she had no real say in what fabrics or colors or patterns were used in her designs, she couldn't help having her favorites. She had sent off samples more than once and stood, flushed with pride, when she saw that the company had accepted her suggestion and that her clothes were now hanging on shelves in the store-in the colors she had selected.  
  
She hadn't been able to resist the temptation to flip out the tag stitched neatly in the back and see their names stitched in fancy cursive: Mireille & Kirika.  
  
They weren't going by a codename anymore-there was no more Noir. They had left their mark simply as "Mireille & Kirika", as simple as that.  
  
All this skipped through Mireille's mind as she relaxed, watching Kirika draw. She loved her life now; she and Kirika were working together on something they both loved, something that had a role for both of them to play. It had been over a year since their return from Japan and although it hadn't been easy to start a new business, they had both thrown themselves into it whole-heartedly.  
  
Kirika paused, her pencil hovering a few millimeters above the paper, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. She handed the picture over to Mireille.  
  
"I like it." Mireille smiled. "It never ceases to amaze me how you manage to understand exactly what I'm thinking from a few yards of cloth wrapped loosely around you."  
  
Kirika laughed. Having been indirectly reminded, she began to unwind the cloth and wrap it neatly on the bolt again, pausing to slice off a square foot. Mireille turned the page and stared at the next model, hoping for some glint of inspiration, but none came.  
  
Kirika returned from the storage room. She sat down on her chair and yawned.  
  
"Tired?" asked Mireille, then set down her pencil as she remembered. "Sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you out of bed so early in the morning for this."  
  
"It's fine," murmured Kirika, in a sleepy voice. She opened her eyes fully and commented, "We won't be able to fit many more samples of cloth in the storage room."  
  
"I know." Mireille grinned guiltily. Almost every time she went out, she would come back with more bolts of cloth in various shades. Kirika teased that she was spending more money on cloth than they were making, although both knew they were bringing in a decent profit. Mireille's last design of an elegant gown had been the rage across Paris among all the girls of age, and the money had been streaming in. The company had been telling them to put up a website for ages, but they hadn't gotten around to it. Or, as Mireille suspected, she just didn't want to have anything to do with the Internet again.  
  
For the first time that warm summer morning since she'd opened her eyes at 4 AM, Mireille felt a wave of sleep submerging her. "Kirika, we'd better head back, unless you'd like to sleep in that chair."  
  
Almost unwillingly to leave the comfy padded chair, Kirika stood up slowly. Mireille laughed and brought a large orange pre-addressed envelope from the shelf by her side. There was a copying machine beside the second-hand sewing machine that was seldom used-only when Mireille wanted to see how a particular type of stitch would look-and she fed the sketch through the machine, producing several copies in a span of seconds. She placed two in the envelope along with the necessary forms and the square of cloth that Kirika had cut before sealing it.  
  
She ran her fingers lightly over the words that had been printed onto the envelope ages ago: Mireille & Kirika. She was used to keeping their identities secret, not letting their names get out. And now their names were embroidered into thousands of gowns across France. And they were getting fan mail, too, that had been forwarded by the company that actually produced the clothes: a girl in Madrid had just written them, asking when their designs might possibly come to Spain.  
  
She liked it a lot. She knew Kirika did too.  
  
As they stepped outside, Mireille dropped the envelope into the mailbox.  
  
Author's note: A bit of insight into Kirika and Mireille's new life. . .yet AGAIN. I was considering deleting this story since it's nothing like I originally wanted it to be, but I'm not sure. . .  
  
I used a translation bot for the title, but it should mean "The two fashion designers." 


End file.
